


Drabbles! (this is fine)

by remmyme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, DCBB Firechat, Drabbles, Fluff, M/M, Porn, Tumblr Prompts, all kinds of stuff idk, just this once though, the things we learn, these are supposed to be 100 words but apparently i have no restraint, umm ok unlike SOME things i guess the drabbles were actually my fault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2018-11-11 12:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11148327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme/pseuds/remmyme
Summary: A collection of drabbles from Tumblr and misc. Discord prompts.





	1. Hair

Dean’s folding over the last omelet when Sam lopes in from his morning run, red-faced and hair up in some ridiculous ponytail. Dean _really_ wants to mock him for that one, but figures he can’t begrudge the kid for trying to combat the August heat, even if he does think it’s fucking ridiculous to be running in it in the first place.

“Smells good,” Sam says, making a beeline for the veggie and swiss Dean’s already got plated by the stove. Dean rolls his eyes as Sam starts shoveling in his food right where he stands, hovering at Dean’s elbow like the stray fucking barn dog he is. “Mm,” he hums appreciatively. “Thanks, man.”

Dean cranes his neck to peer through the kitchen entryway. “Where’s Cas?”

Sam shrugs. “Dunno,” he says around a mouthful. “He was catching a breath outside, I think.”

“How’d he do?”

Sam digs his grubby fingers into the bowl of chopped ham left on the counter, and he’s really fucking lucky Dean’s pretty much done with his and Cas’s own ham and cheddars because come _on_ , Dean knows he raised him better than that. “He did good,” Sam replies, chipper. “I took it pretty easy on speed, but we got in way more distance than I thought we would.”

Dean hears the distinctive squeak of tennis shoes on concrete and turns, just in time to see Cas himself come through the door.

“Eurgk,” Dean chokes.

Sam barks a laugh beside him. “Dude, what did you _do?_ Dump your water bottle?”

That’s _exactly_ what it looks like Cas did. His whole head is soaked, his hair – longer than it ever was as an angel – slicked and dripping and curling at the ends. His face and neck shine with water and sweat; the gray of his – _Dean’s_ – Zep tee saturated dark from collar to navel and molded to his chest.

Dean has…no idea what his face is doing, but it must be doing _something_ because Cas catches his eye, curious and a shade concerned.

“…Curls,” Dean croaks.

Cas’s expression goes sharp, knowing and _hungry_ and oh, fuck, Dean is so screwed. “Yes,” Cas says, considering and low. He brings up a hand to tug sharply at a lock of hair curling at his forehead. “You did say you would trim it soon.” He turns to make his way back down the hall, throwing over his shoulder as he goes, “A shampoo and a cut is standard procedure, yes?”

For a long, long moment Dean simply stares the spot where Cas previously stood.

 _Curls_.

The spatula in his hand clatters to the counter, and Dean fast-walks his way straight to the showers.

\---

(“Gross,” Sam mutters, flipping off the stovetop. Then he eats Dean’s omelet, too.)


	2. Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major Character Death (though not Dean and/or Castiel)

Castiel swings into the room, gun up and unwaveringly trained to the blood-soaked stranger stood before him. “Drop it,” he says, flicks his gun to the fire poker the man holds; the sick, wet _drip, drip, drip_ from its wicked pronged tip the only sound around.

The man drops it. He doesn’t look at Castiel.

“They killed him,” he says, voice as dead as the bodies that surround him.

“I saw,” Castiel stops, swallows down the bile. “I saw the cages. My partner…” He’d gone to the barn, first. He thinks of Kathleen, lifeless eyes below a messy, close-range headshot. He thinks of the man laid out in the next pin over, young and vulnerable and dead from multiple gut shots; a slow, inconceivably cruel execution.

He thinks of the message the boy had written in the dirt, his dying thought: _I’m sorry, Dean._

“Dean?” Castiel tries, and the man’s head whips up. His eyes are very, very green. “Dean, what happened?”

“They killed him.” Dean whispers, cracked and lost. “They’re…h-humans. They’re people.” He folds in on himself, dropping to his knees. He’s starts to cry, hands to his face and heedless of the blood that bathes him red, his voice rising to a desperate shout. “They’re _people.”_

Castiel holsters his weapon.


	3. Bikini

“Girls,” Dean mutters. “ _Girls_. Hot, wet, ladies. Smokin’ bikini beach babes.” Dean sets his jaw, steels his resolve and does not look. “ _Bikinis_ , Dean, god fucking damn it.”

“Dean?” says Cas, tan and toned and stripped down to shorts; laid out on a towel in the sand with sun in his hair, happy and loose and _stupidly_ fucking gorgeous and Dean _will not look god damnit._ “Can you do my back?”

Dean exhales, shuddery and slow.

“Sure, Cas.”


	4. Jeans

“Do you imagine I don’t _notice_ , Dean?” Cas growls into the minimal space between them, face-to-face and close, too fucking close. “Do you think me naïve?” His drags his palm down Dean’s length, hand huge and firm and warm even through the thick fabric of his jeans. Cas's grip tightens at the head of Dean's cock, fingers moving in a rough massage that has him helplessly whimpering out his pleasure, sinfully good. 

The hand on Dean’s chest pushes in harder as Dean strains against it, keeping him effortlessly pinned to the wall at his back. “You taunt,” Cas says, and returns to pumping Dean over the denim, relentless and inescapable. “You tease,” and Dean knocks his head back to the wall, hair catching and pulling as he rolls his head against it, too incoherent to work up a proper denial. “Do you have _any idea,_ ” he demands, dangerous and low, “what you do to me?”

Cas leans in further still, brushes his nose and lips along Dean’s jaw and up to his ear to command, “Say it again.”

“Castiel,” Dean gasps, a prayer and a plea and an answer all the same. Cas presses forward for Dean to feel the heavy heat of Cas’s own erection against his hip and at that, fuck, Dean _moans_ , long and loud and his knees nearly give but Cas holds him steady, doesn’t let him fall. “Cas—” Dean gulps in desperate pants of breath and Cas’s hand never slows, “—tiel, Castiel, oh, fuck, Cas, I’m gonna, I—” and he does, comes so hard his vision sparks and oh, goddamn it, in his fucking jeans, to boot.

Cas is never gonna let him live it down.


	5. Desk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Military AU!

Castiel is behind his desk, mindlessly filling out the day’s paperwork, when a soldier bursts into his chambers with such violence Castiel is instantly on his feet, alert and ready to face whichever new threat or crisis has chosen to present itself.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” Dean Winchester shouts.

Castiel, who had marginally relaxed upon registering the intruder’s identity, again tenses at the other’s demand. He guardedly steps around the desk, one hand out in a placating gesture. “Dean,” he cautions.

“It’s been days, Cas!” Dean continues, over-loud and ignoring Castiel completely. “Echo 4 is completely and totally pinned, they’re running out of time!”

Castiel swallows against the anger and urgency that have been building in him with every hour passed. “I know,” he says.

“This is an entire squad of men we’re talking about,” Dean growls, taking a menacing step towards Castiel. “So why the fuck is no one _doing anything?”_

Castiel’s eyes drop to the surface of the desk at his side, reluctant to see Dean’s reaction as he says. “The higher-ups do not believe we possess sufficient information on the current situation as to risk a rescue.”

“BULLSHIT,” Dean roars, slamming a hand to the desk. “My _brother’s_ out there!”

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly. “It’s not that simple.”

With a wordless cry of rage Dean takes a wild swing; sloppy in his anger, slow and off-balance and Castiel easily deflects the blow, catching Dean’s wrist and twisting him around to slam bodily to the wood surface of Castiel’s desk. Dean thrashes wildly beneath him; Castiel simply tightens his hold on the arm trapped between them, braces more weight to the hand at Dean’s shoulder to keep him pinned.

Castiel waits Dean out, waits until he stops his struggles to say, tone cold, “I neither appreciate nor deserve your hostility, _Lieutenant_.” Castiel hitches Dean’s arm an inch higher; Dean turns his face into the papers he’s laid out on to muffle his pained grunt. “I consider you a friend, Dean, but I am your commanding officer regardless. I could have you discharged in an instant for the stunt you just pulled.” Castiel leans further into the man beneath him, brings his mouth as close to Dean’s ear as he’s able. “You should show me some respect.”

Dean’s breath catches, and his entire body locks up tight. He remains painfully stiff for an endless moment and then, on a long exhale of air, sags, surrendering completely to Castiel’s hold; the fight drained from him as quickly as it came. Castiel cautiously releases Dean and quickly steps away.

Dean braces both hands to the desk’s edge, head bowed and refusing to look in Castiel’s direction.

“Echo 4’s last known location is precisely 80 miles southeast of here,” Castiel says to Dean’s back. “We are by far in the best position to provide aid and get our men clear of the enemy forces.” Dean’s shoulders tense, but he remains silent. Castiel makes his way to the door of his chambers, cracking it open. “I’m putting together a unit,” he says shortly. “We leave at 16:00. Take the time you need.”

Castiel leaves the room, closing the door firmly behind him.   


	6. Basket

It’s 7 AM and there’s a knock at the bunker’s front door.

Dean, who had just shuffled out from the kitchen, coffee in hand and mid-yawn, looks warily up to the entry landing and door in question.

 _Rap rap rap_ comes the knock again, the clang of metal echoing down to Dean below.

“Uh,” Dean says, “okay.”

Mary’s out on a hunt, not due back for days. Sam and Cas are…somewhere. Sleeping, presumably.

Dean cautiously makes his way to the stairs, dropping his coffee to the war table and picking up a spare pistol in the process. He quickly and quietly climbs the stairwell to the landing and, back to the doorframe, swings open the lever lock to push the door open and out.

There’s nothing, no one, save a basket on the doorstep.

There’s a basket on the doorstep and two curly, wiggling, whining puppies nestled in the blankets inside.  

Dean closes the door.

“No,” he announces to the empty room. “Nope. No way.” He turns and clatters his way down the stairs, robe flowing around his ankles and slippers slapping against the grating.  

Dean safeties the gun and tucks it into the holster taped under the war table. He drags over his tablet and sits, intent on going through the morning news.

He picks up his still-steaming coffee mug. Lowers it without taking a sip. Stares blankly at the dark screen of the computer propped before him.

“God _damnit_.”

\---

(“Sam,” Cas hisses, crouched at the back-rear tire of his pickup and peeking out over the bed. “He’s coming back.”

Sam abandons the strongly-worded message he’d been typing out to his brother – starting with _how could you_ and ending at _you DICK_ – to scramble his way up from the ground. “Shit, really?”

Sure enough, Dean’s standing at the bunker’s entrance, stooped to scoop up the basket before immediately retreating back inside, the creaking _clunk_ of the door falling shut loud in the distance.

Sam puts up a hand for a high-five. Cas doesn’t really get it, though, so he gets a hug instead.)


	7. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISGUSTINGLY FLUFFY, YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

There are few things in this world more Hellish than navigating a Wal-Mart at 4 o’clock on a weekday, but sometimes needs must.

With a mounting annoyance which, typically, looks to be manifesting itself into a truly spectacular headache, Dean resigns himself to an offensively long wait and steers his buggy to the checkout closest to the supercenter’s exit. He knows full well that trolling the aisles for shorter lines would likely be more trouble than it’s worth.  

Dean joins the line – four long, what the fuck - and grimaces down at the contents his cart. Boots, underwear, socks, toothbrush, deodorant; the sorriest ‘Congrats! You’re Human Now!’ starter pack there ever was.

Dean senses movement in his periphery and shuffles forward with the rest of the queue. He glances up and his mood brightens considerably as he catches sight of the wall of checkout candy bait.

“Dude, score,” Dean says, snatching up a bar from the boxes before him. “Clark bar!” He turns, wiggling the candy in demonstration, only to be met with empty air where a certain ex-angel should be stood but very distinctly _isn’t._

Dean experiences a spike of panic the likes he hasn’t felt since he was 15 years old and Sam last wandered away in the middle of a small-town Family Dollar. “Cas?” Dean cranes his neck, scanning the area for a familiar mop of dark hair or flash of tan trench and coming up broke.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean swears, and awkwardly maneuvers himself away from the checkout, quickly backing out into the main aisle and shooting a tight smile to the curious soccer mom lined up behind him as he goes. Dean swivels left and right and relief washes over him in a wave as he immediately spots his friend, two rows down and stood unmoving at a crooked iron rack of $5 flower bunches.

Dean abandons the cart and stomps over to grab Cas’s coat sleeve, a leash and reassurance at once. “What the hell, Cas?”

Cas doesn’t spare Dean a glance, free hand coming up to touch lightly at the vibrant yellow petals of a pom flower among one of the bunches.

“Daisies,” Cas says, low enough that Dean almost doesn’t catch it over the surrounding din of evening shoppers. “For purity, and…” he trails off and a smile steals its way onto his face, small at his mouth and obvious in the eyes and somehow more expressive than he ever was as an angel. “New beginnings,” he concludes, hand falling to Dean’s clenched at his sleeve, gently pulling him away to thread their fingers together, easy and sweet.  

Dean swallows hard, eyes on their hands and this isn’t them, never was, but Dean sees it as the question it is. Cas finally confronting head-on this unnamed something that’s lived between them for more years than Dean cares to count.

“Yeah,” Dean swallows again, roughly clears his throat, “okay.”

\---

One detour, Clark bar, and 20-minute checkout later, Cas insists on holding his newly purchased potted yellow mums firmly in his lap the whole long ride home.


	8. Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon asks: cas has problem with his wings, and dean helps him
> 
> (whoops)

Dean walking through the bunker late one night, sleepless and tipsy, doing the rounds. Hears something, what? Something, he doesn’t even know what. Something strange, something familiar.

Whatever it is, it’s coming from the bunker’s gym, the door cracked and light spilling from the bottom. At this hour? Dean steps to the door, pushes it open and it’s Cas, standing back to the door and hands braced to the far wall. He’s shirtless, pants low on his waist and shirt, jacket, tie and trench a pile at his feet. His legs are braced in a wide vee and his head is bowed, shoulders tense, and Dean can’t help but notice the distracting flex of muscle, surprisingly toned, as Cas’s hands clench and unclench from fists against the wall.

The air at Cas’s back shimmers and wavers in rippling waves, and Dean doesn’t think the whiskey’s to blame.

“Cas?”

Cas flinches but doesn’t turn, head ducking further and he doesn’t speak. Officially freaked the fuck out, Dean is three steps into wide bare room in the space of a blink because what if he’s hurt, what if one of the wards fucked his mojo, what if—

“Stop,” Cas barks at the wall, not quite angry but something close enough, and then the air goes thick and electric-sharp and there’s that noise, again, louder than Dean’s ever heard but there’s no mistaking it.

Dean freezes in his tracks but Cas still hasn’t moved, is exactly where he was a breath before. “Holy shit,” Dean says, quiet and still, like one wrong move and Cas really will disappear. The strange tangibility of the empty space at Cas’s back pulses, then settles. “Are those your wings?”

Cas’s arms go tight, pushing hard into the unyielding brick. “This is the only room I can stretch them fully,” he says, low. Then, with an air of confession, “I can’t fly.”

Dean takes another cautious few steps forward. “I know, buddy. It’s been a while.”

The abstract impression of wings disappears so suddenly Dean’s left blinking away the afterimages, air once again gone flat and only in its absence does Dean notice the previous buzz of grace, thick on the back of his tongue. Cas whirls around on Dean and he’s left with another reason to blink away the shock, Cas, shirtless and furious, demanding and suddenly right in Dean’s space. “Yet Gabriel has, Dean! Gabriel was injured in the Fall, same as us all, and we heal, slowly we heal but I—” and Cas cuts away, takes a single shuddering breath. He drops his eyes from Dean’s startlement, as if ashamed, and steps a measured distance away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s nothing.” And he’s out the door and down the hall before Dean can think to protest.

Dean’s left alone to the quiet, eyes to Cas’s abandoned pile of clothes and brain slowly ticking away.  


End file.
